


Psyche's Captive

by ThePrettyBoyMachine



Category: Karmaland 4
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22222711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePrettyBoyMachine/pseuds/ThePrettyBoyMachine
Summary: Those he damned reach out to him, their hands clutch at the clothes he wears, solidifying their presence. They claw and tear.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Psyche's Captive

It's not unusual.

The biting cold of the winds, kissing his skin and leaving goosebumps in it's wake. The all encompassing darkness of the starless night, closing in like an embrace. The sound of soulless creatures, roaming in search of easy prey. The faint glow of the torches, warm and protective like a lover, a silver lining of hope and brilliance. The weight of a knife in his hands, and with it the stains of his sins.

It's not unusual. He's been here before, the scenery changes but the familiarity never does.

Kneeling a the shore, the ocean water struggles to reach him. It's body vast and it's voice even more so. The moon hovers over him, watching his every move like a divine being waiting to punish him. 

And as if the moon herself possessed him after passing her judgement his hands move, bringing with them the biting sharpness of the blade to the skin of his throat, soft and exposed to the whims of the dead.

His hands shake. Because in his minds eye he can see them and they feel so real.

Those he damned reach out to him, their hands clutch at the clothes he wears, solidifying their presence. They claw and tear. At his clothes, his hair, his face, his body. With their fingers they search in the deepest part of his psyche and hold him hostage. Keep his mind rooted in place.

Their cries rise and meld with the voice of the ocean. They scream and beg for justice. They shout in anger and indignation. They plead for forgiveness for mistakes they didn't make. They vitriol curses at him who killed them without remorse. At him who dares to live and try to forget them.

They fill his senses as tears fill his eyes. The emerald in them reflects the light of the moon, and in his head he asks her for mercy. But unlike the gods who answer to the people of this land, she remains quiet and her verdict remains the same.

His resolve hardens and with it his hold on the blade. A glint in his eyes betraying the maniac abandon he surrenders himself to.

Heart pounding, the sound of blood rushing through his veins, reaching a cacophony so loud that the dead stop and his own thoughts are put to a halt.

With it a crescendo of end approaches, as steel sings against the night. Piercing. 

The tears fall. It's painful. It burns, blood becomes molten lava inside of him. The scorching heat chars his body and mind. Violent crimson rivulets find their way out from between his lips and out of the carving in his neck, the liquid swells and in it’s wake the vivid vermilion becomes a dark stain, stark against his alabaster like skin. A personal brand exposing his failings and guilt.

It chokes him up, not so different from the tears that where there before. His vibrant eyes open up, now dull and bleary in the face of harrowing pain. The buzzing in his mind gives away to the sounds of elation and mirth, the ghastly hands of the condemned grasp at him leaving behind streaks of murky gore, like shackles sealing his fate. They drag him down in a fruitless effort to bring him closer to them, but he follows them anyway. His hold on the weapon falters, the slimy texture of blood grazing his fingers makes them twitch and recoil.

He wants to laugh at himself, feeling aversion against the very thing he enjoyed the most.

And he does.

The crazed glint is back in his eyes as his fingers fasten around the handle, pulling and with the drag of the blade being freed the cruor follows. Uncontrollable liquid streams down unto the crevices of his body. Wheezing gasps try to imitate his glee filled laughter, the warped melody aided by his maimed and clogged trachea. It stops, interrupted by the sound of hacking, the violent convulsion of his body sends splatters across the sand, a sad painting of his end.

Hands raising against his neck and mouth, he tries to stop it. The coughing, the life leaving his body. It hurts. It hurts. _It hurts._ Desperately he claws at the wound, trying to close it by sheer willpower alone knowing it’s a losing battle.

The dead are back, laughing in his face. Mocking and disgusting. They grip at his hair, their fingers entangling with copper strands. Pushing, pulling, stretching, yanking and tearing. From behind cloudy eyes he can see them, their marred shapeless faces, voids of darkness and regrets, hunting and haunting him.

But with bright clarity he can distinguish the silhouette of his beloved weaving in between the forms of the strange outsiders, those beautiful and sad hazel eyes following his movements, his face like a dream.

A powerful numbness invades him as he tries to lift his bloodied hands, reaching in his direction, hoping for salvation in the form of the only man he ever loved. He’s met with cold, unforgiving eyes, an accusatory glare that reminds him that there’s no redemption he can wish for. That his actions burned that bridge to the ground and then some more.

With a dull thud, his body hits the ground, the illusion disappears and with it his strength follows. The nipping cold of the night returns, alleviating the fire behind his eyes and under his skin. His vision swims and his lungs struggle to remain laboring, fuzzy darkness inches across the field, closing in on him. Death embraces him in it’s winter like arms and lulls him like a sweet mother, waiting for his arrival.

* * *

The sweltering glimmer of the sun beats down on his weary body as his eyes open. The boundless sky stretches above his head and greets him like a newcomer. For a second the sunny day dazzles and disorients him, but he recognizes this hill. The proud billboard behind him announces the name of the town for everyone to see, lures lost souls to it’s prosperous land like a avid seductress.

He cries out to no one, and curses out the world. Venomous words with no other direction than himself. Because the outcome won’t change, even if he tries time and time again, like a cruel joke he begins anew, at a different point but the same stage.

It's not unusual. He's been here before, the scenery changes but the familiarity never does. And he’ll return again, when they cry and ask him to pay with his life for the mistakes he’s made and can never fix.

**Author's Note:**

> Chale, que cringe soy men u_u


End file.
